Chapter V: Book II: August 1, 1685 (2)

"I am not," said Meg. "I like to hear all about such people. Tell us more about them."

So we sat down, I with my knitting,—which my aunt highly commends, and has given me silk thread enough for a pair of hose,—and the girls with their white seam, and I told them all I knew about the minister's family and household,—how poor they were, and what hard work they often had to appear even decently clad; and how Mrs. Pendergast and her oldest daughter Beulah went about among the poor folks, and had the little ones come to them to learn to read and sew; and so on, making a long story out of a little, because I saw that Meg was pleased. When I stopped at last—

"I don't see but good people are much alike everywhere," said Meg. "This minister's wife seems very much like my aunt Laneham."

"What is that?" said my aunt, opening the door. "What about aunt Laneham?"

I started, she came in so quietly, but Meg answered tranquilly,—

"I was only saying, madam, that my aunt was like a very good woman Dorothy was telling us of, who visited the poor and sick, and taught little maidens to read and sew."

"Ah, poor sister Laneham! She threw herself away dreadfully. She might have been living in one of the finest country-houses in Devon, but she would have her own way, and she got it. I always thought her parents much to blame in giving in to her. But your grandfather and grandmother were very lax with their children. Talking of clergymen, Margaret, I hear you were not at church this morning. How was that?"

"I was there, madam, but I felt faint and ill, and so sat under a window, that I might have the fresh air," answered Meg.

"Oh, very well! Lady Carewe told me she did not see you."

"Spiteful, tattling old toad!" muttered Betty between her teeth, which my aunt, overhearing, rewarded with a sharp rap from her fan-handle, which was meant for her shoulders, but unluckily fell across her check instead, making a red bar on the white skin. Betty uttered a cry of pain, for she has been having the toothache lately, and her cheek is very tender.

Meg started forward, her pale cheek flushed for once.

"You must not give way to these megrims, Meg," said my aunt, taking no notice of Betty. "They are more than half fancy, and the more you give way to them, the more you may. Let me see you down-stairs in an hour, nicely dressed. My Lady Sunderland has lent us her box for the play to-night. Dorothy, you may wear your green silk, and Margaret may do the same. Betty will wear her old black silk."

With that she left the room; and Meg and I set ourselves to comfort and quiet Betty, who was in an agony of rage and shame, and of pain as well, for the blow had set her teeth to aching. I know one thing: if ever I have a grown-up daughter, I will never strike her.

"You cannot go to the play to-night, Bess, that is one comfort," said Meg.

And indeed her face was swollen and angry, and growing worse every moment.

"I will go," said Bess. "I will shame her before all the company."

"Shame your own mother!" said I. "Remember, her shame is yours; and, beside, my aunt did not mean to strike your face."

All we could do did not avail to prevent Bess from going down to the parlor, though her face was a woeful spectacle, with a fiery red bar across it, and the blood settling round her eye. Luckily, there were no strangers present. My aunt did look disconcerted for a moment.

"You cannot go to the play in this state," said she. "I did not mean to strike your cheek, nor to strike so hard."

"It does not matter, madam," answered Betty.

"Don't answer me in that tone, child," said my aunt, more gently than I expected. "Do you not know, Betty, that young folks must be corrected sometimes? How else would they be fitted to take their proper places in society? My whole desire is to see Margaret and yourself, and Dorothy too," she added kindly, "well settled in the world, and answering to what the world expects of ladies in your condition."

"And what about the other world, madam?" asked Betty, who had got the bit between her teeth, and was reckless of consequences. "That is a world, which, if all we hear be true, is likely to last a good deal longer than this. How about that?"

My lady looked really grieved.

"I did not expect such a question from my daughter," said she. "Do I not take all the pains possible with your religious education? Do I not give you the best books of devotion that can be found both in French and English? Do I not send you to church every day and twice on Sundays? What more can I do? But there, I pardon you, child. You have your father's temper, and one must make allowances. Go to your room, and bid Sharpless make a poultice for your face, and I will send you some custard for your supper. But try to rule your spirit, Betty, and do not doubt your mother's love, though she may think it needful to cross you at times."

I saw that Betty was softened in a moment, though she said nothing. Meg ventured to ask if she might stay with her sister, but my aunt said no. She had made up a party for her box, and could not have it broken up. So we went to the play; and there we met Lord Chesterton, who devoted himself to Meg all the evening, much to her annoyance. I could not but wonder if it were necessary to the character of a fine gentleman to take the name of God in vain at every breath, as they all do. Mr. Evelyn is as fine a gentleman as any of them, and I never heard him do it. It used to scare me dreadfully at first; but I am growing used to it, and even find myself catching up the words, which some ladies use very freely, I find.

_August 20._

I have seen Mr. Morley.

We went to church as usual this morning. Ursula Jackson comes every Sunday with her husband, and I have got a habit of looking for her, and sometimes of speaking when we meet. My aunt doth not object, because she says we owe it to ourselves to be civil to all, each in their degree.

Well, I looked round as usual, after we had curtsied to my Lady Carewe (a wonderful object she is in her black locks and rouged cheeks, which show the crow's feet and wrinkles through all her paint). Well, I glanced toward Ursula's pew, as usual, and there sat Mr. Morley. I was so astonished I could hardly command myself. While I was looking, Ursula and her husband came in; and Mr. Morley rose to make room for them, with a polite salute, which Mr. Jackson returned, though he looked like a small thunder-storm. Mr. Morley bowed very particularly to me; and I returned his salute, not knowing what else to do.

When we came out, my aunt asked me who it was that had bowed to me. I told her it was a distant cousin of Lady Corbet's, whom I had met at her house.

"One of her way of thinking?" she asked.

"No, madam," I answered. "He has a company in Col. Kirke's regiment."

"Ay, I thought he looked like a soldier," was her comment.

As we passed out, I heard Mr. Jackson rating the old pew-opener for daring to put a stranger into his seat. The poor old woman protested that she meant no offence, saying the gentleman had told her he was Mrs. Jackson's cousin. Ursula stood by without a word. I fancy she hath met her match, and I am not one bit sorry if she has.

What was my surprise, on coming down in the evening, to find Mr. Morley with my aunt, and evidently in favor!

"Mr. Morley has brought me a letter from your father, girls," said my aunt, as she presented him to us. "He is on his way up to town, and as Mr. Morley passed him on the road, he was kind enough to take charge of a packet. Your father was obliged by business to stop a few days on the road, but he will be here the last of the week."

Both the girls uttered exclamations of joy. They are clearly very fond of their father, who I fancy is more indulgent than their mother.

"Sir Robert is happy in having such affectionate daughters," said Mr. Morley, bowing; "and I am glad to find my old acquaintance, Mrs. Dolly Corbet, in such pleasant circumstances."

"Yes, my girls are fond of their father, who spoils them dreadfully," said my aunt, looking not ill-pleased, however. "Dorothy has not yet seen her uncle."

Mr. Morley staid to supper, and made himself so agreeable that I felt proud of him. Of course, we had no chance to talk together in private, but it was enough for once to be in the room with him, to hear his voice, and catch now and then a glance from his eye meant for me alone.

When at last he took his leave, my aunt asked him to come again.

I should be the happiest girl alive only that Meg has taken an unaccountable dislike to him. When I ventured to ask her what she thought of him, "Why, as I thought when I saw the great American viper that Mr. Boyle showed us in his museum," said she. "His head hath just the same shape; only they say the viper gives warning when he is about to strike, and I doubt this one would not."

"You are not used to be so uncharitable, Meg," said I, very much vexed.

"Perhaps I am wrong," said she, "but I took a dislike to the man the moment I saw him."

"You ought to like him because he is my friend," said I.

"That is the very reason I don't," she rejoined.

"And what say you, Betty?" I asked. "Don't you like him, either?"

"I don't like or dislike him," said Betty. "He is like all the rest,—stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, how I do hate it all! But I am glad my father is coming up: do you know why?"

"Because you wish to see him."

"Yes, and because I know very well he will never endure to stay here long. He hates London as much as I do, and you will see he will whisk us down to dear old Devon before three weeks are over; and oh, how glad I shall be!—Won't you, Meg?"

"Yes, if I go," said Meg wearily. "Dolly, will you let Sharpless come to me first to-night, I am so tired?" (For we take turns in being first waited on.)

"You may have her all the time, for all I care," said I. "You know I am used to dressing myself. But why do you say, 'if I go'? Of course you will go with us."

She shook her head sadly, but said not one word, as she passed into her room and closed the door. I looked at Betty.

"What does she mean?" said I.

"I don't know," answered Betty, "only Meg always thinks she shall die young. But there may be another reason. Come into my room, Dorothy."

She shut the door, and said in a low tone, "I think my mother has a match in hand for her."

"You don't mean Lord Chesterton!" I exclaimed, rather more loudly than was prudent.

"Hush!" said Bess. "Yes, I am afraid so."

"But she cannot abide him!"

"He is an earl's son and probable heir to a dukedom," said Betty bitterly.

"And an atheist, open and avowed."

"Well, not exactly that. You know it is the genteel thing for men to have doubts about religion."

I thought of Mr. Morley, and was silent for a moment. Then I asked, "But what think you your father will say?"

"He would not let Meg be sacrificed—or think not—if she were utterly set against this man," answered Betty slowly; "though Sir Robert rarely interferes with my mother. I think you will love him, Dolly, though he is rather rough in his ways at times. But I don't know that his oaths and stories are any worse than those of the fine gentlemen that visit my mother."

"I don't see how they could be. But, Bess, don't be too much cast down. It may well be that we are borrowing trouble about Meg."

"Well, I hope so. There is one thing about it, I don't believe any one she marries will trouble her long. Good-night, Dolly."

_August 27._

My uncle has come, a big, roistering country gentleman, who kissed me on both sides of my face, and bade God bless me, and in the same breath damned his man for not bringing his bootjack. But I like him for all; there is something real and genuine about him. He scolded about our pale cheeks, vowed he would have us out stag-hunting, and asked me if I could ride.

"I don't know, uncle. I am like the man in the jest-book, who said he did not know if he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried."

He laughed a great, hearty laugh, and said he was glad to see I had a spirit of my own. Then turning to his elder daughter,—

"Why, Meg, thou lookest more like a white bind-weed than ever. What ails thee, child?"

"Margaret hath been a little drooping, but we shall soon have her better," said my aunt. "Will you not wash and dress before supper, Sir Robert?"

"Oh, ay, I suppose so!" said he, and strode away whistling.

The house seems brighter already for his presence. He hath begged a holiday for us that he may take us to see the sights. My aunt gives in to him wonderfully, and Betty hangs on him like a burr. He has taken us to see the lions in the tower, and some other sights, and given us two or three drives out of town to one resort and another. Among others we went to Hackney, and saw the place where I went to school. The old house was pulled down, and a new one was going up, which I suppose my poor mother's three hundred pounds helped to build. I would I had the ordering of a few clever hobgoblins for the owner's benefit. He would not stay long in his fine mansion.

Mr. Morley hath called two or three times, and hath even dined with us. My uncle says he is a rising man, in favor at court, and like to do well. He hath paid me some attention, but of course we have no chance to talk together in private. Only last night we had a few words over the harpsichon, where he had been singing with me.

"I am afraid you don't care for me any more, Dolly," said he. "Your grand friends and admirers have made you forget your poor soldier of fortune."

"I know not why you should say that," I answered. "Would you have me run after you?"

"Ah, I see you have learned 'repartee!' But do you remember our interviews in the park? I would we could have another such walk together as we had that last morning. Come, meet me to-morrow in the old place."

"I cannot if I would, and I would not if I could," said I. "I promised solemnly I would never do that again."

"And to whom did you give that promise? To your amiable mistress, or to her vinegar-faced waiting-woman? Pshaw, Dolly! Vows were made to be broken."

"I tell you it is impossible!" said I. "You might as well ask me to meet you in the moon."

My aunt called me at that moment, so I could say no more. I don't know how it is: I ought to be the happiest girl in the world now that I can see Mr. Morley so often, and that my uncle and aunt like him, but I am not. I suppose perfect happiness is not for this world.

_September 1._

My uncle already talks of going down to Fullham, and the girls are well-pleased. I don't want to go at all.

_September 2._

The murder is out. Lord Chesterton has made proposals for Margaret, and been accepted. My uncle pished and pshawed a little about giving his Meg to a courtier, but gave in when my aunt represented the likelihood of Meg's being a duchess; for the duke's elder son is lately dead, and the other is a poor, sickly little lad. Margaret says little, but makes no objection. She grows thinner and paler every day, but my aunt does not seem to notice it, or has not till lately. Now she makes her take a little ale with her dinner, and two or three nights she hath herself brought her a cup of wine whey at night.

I cannot make Meg out. Sometimes I think she is pleased with the thought of being a duchess and living in that grand house, though that is not like her. For my own part, I would rather live in a cabin with the man I love. I said as much to Meg one night.

"And so would I, perhaps, if things were different," said she, with a moonlight smile; "but, as it is, it does not matter."

"Why do you always say that?" I asked. "I think it matters a great deal."

"If you were to stay only an hour or two at an inn on your way home, you would not care much, though your accommodations were rough, and your companions not greatly to your mind," said Meg.

"I don't understand you," said I.

But I had no chance to ask any more, for my lady called us to see the splendid presents of jewels and lace that the duke hath sent to Margaret. The poor little boy fades every day, they say, and the duke treats his nephew already as his heir. I never in all my life saw such pearls,—as big as peas, and of a wonderful purity and lustre. And there is a sapphire jewel, in a ring, which is like a piece out of the blue sky. Meg regarded them all with the same tranquil gravity with which she looks at all the splendid preparations for her bridal.

"My uncle has been very kind, has he not?" said Lord Chesterton, who had himself brought the jewels.

"Yes, every one is very kind," said Margaret gently.

"But you don't care for the silly things, after all?" said he, looking earnestly at her. (I do think he is in love with her.) "Mrs. Margaret, what can I do to give you a pleasure? I would sell my soul to see you look pleased for once."

Margaret turned her lovely eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

"Then if you would really please me, my lord, there is one thing you might do, and that is to break off such expressions as you used just now."

(For he had confirmed his words with an oath, as usual.) "I beseech you to break off this habit of taking God's holy name in vain on every light occasion. That indeed would give me great pleasure."

"Well, I will," said he, kissing the hand she had laid on his arm in her earnestness. "I know 'tis a bad habit, but after all, it means nothing."

"That is just the trouble," said Meg. "It is against that very meaningless invocation of the holy name that the command is aimed. I beseech you, my lord, if you care for me, to break it off."

"I will try, indeed I will," said he; "I'll be—" Then catching himself up with an embarrassed laugh, "There it is, you see. But indeed, Margaret, I will try, if only to please you."

I never liked my lord so much as at that moment. He forgot his affectations, and looked and spoke like a man.

My aunt, coming back just then, began praising the jewels.

"I never saw any thing so beautiful," said she. "Of what do they remind you, Margaret?"

"Of the twelve gates that were twelve pearls," said Margaret; "and of the walls of the city that are built of precious stones."

I saw the tears come to my Lord Chesterton's eyes as he turned away to the window.

"You see my daughter is very religious," said my aunt.

"I would not have her otherwise, madam," he answered. "My own mother is a devout woman, and prays for her scapegrace of a son every day. Perhaps her prayers may be answered: who knows?—I think you will love my mother, Margaret. You and she will take pleasure in trotting about to the cottages together, and the north winds will blow some roses into these pale cheeks. I do hope you will like my mother."

"I am sure I shall," said Margaret, with far more interest than she had showed in the jewels. "Does she visit among the poor folk? Tell me about her."

Lord Chesterton looked as pleased as a boy at having found something to gratify his lady, and they talked together a long time. I believe there is good in him, after all.

I heard a bit of good news to-day; namely, that Mr. Baxter is released from prison on payment of his fine, which it seems was raised by his friends. I wonder if my mistress gave another seven shillings. Mr. Morley brought the news, adding that folks said his Majesty was courting the Dissenters.

"And what is that for?" asked my uncle, who, I believe, thinks of Dissenters as of some troublesome kind of weeds or animals.

"I can but tell you what is in men's mouths," said Mr. Morley. "'Tis rumored that his Majesty intends to issue an act of toleration to his own sort of people, and that he will include the Dissenters, so as a little to take off the edge, as it were."

"And they will jump at the chance, of course," said my uncle; "and we shall have a conventicle at every corner, eh, Dolly? Don't you think so? Won't your Presbyterian friends jump at the chance?"

"I think not, sir," I answered. "Once when the matter was talked of, I heard one of their divines say that they would not accept toleration on any such terms."

"And did you ever see this Mr. Baxter, this Kidderminster bishop as Jeffreys called him?" asked my uncle.

"Oh, yes, sir, many times! He was very kind to me. I am glad with all my heart he is out of prison."

My aunt frowned. "You are too forward, Dorothy," said she. "Nobody asked your opinion about the matter. Young ladies should be seen, not heard."

"Oh, let her alone! I like to hear the wench stand up for her friends," said my uncle. "But you are not a Presbyterian, are you, Dolly? We can't have that, eh, Mr. Morley?"

"No, sir, I am not a Presbyterian, but I have had good friends among them, as you say," I answered.

"That's well, and I 'am' sorry for the poor things out our way," said my uncle musingly. "I do think they have had very hard measure, very needlessly hard. No offence to you, Mr. Morley."

"I cannot take offence where none is meant," said Mr. Morley. "You know, sir, that war is a rough trade, and Col. Kirke's lambs learned it in a rough school."

"True, 'tis a rough trade, but it need not be made rougher," said my uncle.

And he began to tell one tale after another of horror, which made me sick.

Surely Mr. Morley did never stain his hands with such cruelty. He has always seemed so kind-hearted.

After dinner, my aunt took me to task sharply for my forwardness. She has been sharp with me several times of late, and also with Betty, while she is very tender and gentle with Margaret.

_September 3._

Our new rector preached to-day,—a very fine sermon, I thought, on the words, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life." I saw my aunt look displeased at some passages, but Margaret drank it in as if it had been the water of life. As for Betty, I fancy she never listens to a sermon, but she did give the preacher some of her attention to-day.

"Well, and how did you like the preacher?" said my uncle, when we came home.

"I cannot say that I liked him," replied my aunt. "It seems to me that his doctrine, if received, would make room for all sorts of immoralities. If a man only believes right, he can do whatever wrong he pleases."

"Under your favor, madam, I think not so," said Margaret. "Do you not see that any one who in his heart believes in the Lord Jesus Christ must needs act so as to please him? Such a person would make a conscience of his very thoughts, knowing that by them he must please or displease the Holy Ghost dwelling in his heart."

"That is rather an awful thought, Mrs. Margaret," observed Lord Chesterton, who had come to dine as usual.

"Awful, but comforting," said she, giving him one of the sweet smiles she bestows on him nowadays, and which make him flush like a boy.

"Well, well, we won't debate the preacher at present," said my aunt. "Go, girls, and make ready for dinner."

"So you liked the preacher," said I, as we went up-stairs.

"Yes, indeed," she answered with earnestness. "I think he hath taken the last stone out of my road."

I did not understand her, and there was no time to ask. We went to church again in the afternoon, but we heard nothing of the sermon, for Meg fainted, and had to be carried into the vestry. She revived presently, enough to be taken home in the coach which my lord sent for, but she has not been up since, and looks badly.

_September 6._

Margaret has been down to-day for the first time since her fainting on Sunday, but she looks pale. My aunt makes light of her illness to herself, but I see she watches her very closely. Betty attends on her like her shadow. She and I sleep together now. As we are to have so much company in the house, my room will be needed as a guest-room. As we were going to bed, I bethought me to tell Betty of Meg's words, and ask what she thought they meant.

"I don't know," answered Betty. "I don't pretend to understand such matters."

"I think Margaret likes Lord Chesterton better than she did," said I.

"Yes, I said as much to her; and she told me she was afraid so," said Betty.

"What did that mean? Why should she be afraid of liking her bridegroom too well," I asked. "I should say the more she liked him, the better."

"You are just as blind as all the rest," answered Betty impatiently. "Can't you see an inch before you? I don't so much wonder in your case, but I am astonished at my mother. But some people never will believe what they don't like to believe. I suppose when my mother sees Margaret in her coffin, she will understand at last."

"You think that Margaret is seriously ill, then?" said I, startled.

"I think she is dying, and so does Sharpless," answered Betty. "She will never wear her bridal dress, unless she is buried in it."

"But why should you think so? What ails her?"

"She has been 'murdered!'" said Betty, setting her teeth hard. "Murdered by inches with tight lacing and late hours, and physic to improve her complexion, and all the rest of my mother's regimen."

"Hush!" said I. "You should not say so. Your mother means nothing but what is right, I am sure."

"Oh, yes, she 'means!'" retorted Betty. "She means to take an angel, and make her a woman of the world, but the angel has grown weary, and is pluming her wings for flight. You will see, if you will not believe.—O Meg, Meg, how shall I ever live without thee!"

And with that she burst into tears, and wept so bitterly that my aunt heard her, and came in to see what was the matter. I told her that Betty was grieved about her sister's health, fearing she was seriously ill.

"Is that all?" said she, but not unkindly. "My dear child, you are fanciful, and are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Do you not see that your sister is better already? Do but notice what a sweet flush she has in her cheeks. These fainting-fits are but the natural agitation of spirits at the prospect before her. A month hence you will see your sister a happy bride, and then you will laugh at your present fears. Come, dry your eyes, and go to bed, and all will be well. I am not displeased with you, child. There, good-night."

I was glad that Betty was crying too much to answer her mother a word, for I am always afraid of one of her tantrums. I hope she is mistaken, but I do think Margaret is more out of health than her mother imagines.

I can't but think of Betty's words about making an angel into a woman of the world. Now, the Scriptures talk all the way through as though the world were the enemy of God,—even going so far as to say that any one who is a friend of this world must be an enemy of God. And yet, so far as I can see, my aunt lives for the world: yes, just as much as ever my mistress did; though one cares most for wealth, and the other for fashion and position. And I don't see how one is a bit better than the other.

My aunt will bow to, and exchange visits with, women whom it is impossible she can respect; she will even abase herself to ask favors of them: and why is that any better than the doing of mean things for money? She does seem to me wholly inconsistent. She gives us a book like "The Practice of Piety" or "The Divine Breathings," ¹—books inculcating the very soul of purity and consecration to God,—to read in the morning; and in the evening she takes us to see a play which turns on successful wickedness, and where the name and the laws of God are treated with equal disrespect.

¹ This most admirable little book has lately been reprinted in this country, by Young. I wish some one would do as much for the Practice of Piety, which is now very rare.

My mistress would read the Bible and Mr. Baxter's tractates in the morning, and spend the rest of the day over her accounts, or in exacting the last halfpenny of usury from some poor debtor. And I don't see, for my part, why one is a bit better or worse than another. My mistress talked of owing it to herself to do so and so. My aunt talks of our duty to the world or to society, which is only another name for the same thing.

But the Bible seems to say that the duty we owe to self is to deny it, and the duty we owe to the world is to renounce it, and to labor for its conversion. Now, Bab Andrews really has given up the world; and so, according to Meg's account, hath my aunt Laneham; and I am sure the Pendergasts and Mr. Baxter did not live for it. And, from what Lord Chesterton says, I should think his mother was much such a lady as my aunt Laneham. And I am sure my Lady Clarenham does not live for the world.

And there is another thing. My aunt goes to church and to the holy communion, and says the Creed, and professes to believe all the Prayer-Book teaches; and yet she is not only willing, but delighted, to give her daughter to a man like Lord Chesterton, who is an open unbeliever, and whose course of life hath been somewhat notorious, because he is of great family and heir to a dukedom. No, I don't understand the matter at all.

_September 12._

Margaret is really ill. She lies in bed most of the day, not suffering very much, except from weakness and from the pain in her right side which has troubled her ever since I knew her. I don't know just what the doctor thinks, but the wedding, which was to have been on the 15th, is necessarily put off.

My Lord Chesterton is like one distracted, coming two or three times a day to ask for his lady, and scouring city and country for fruit and flowers and any thing that can give her pleasure. I never thought to like him half so well. I see there really was a man hidden behind the fop and courtier. For one thing, he hath left off swearing at every other breath; and, when a hard word does escape, he looks heartily ashamed. My uncle rallied him, telling him he was growing a Puritan. Whereat, he answered that he would turn Quaker, like Will Penn, if it would please his mistress, at which my uncle clapped him on the shoulder and called him a good fellow.

_September 15._

It was to have been the wedding-day, but no one says a word about weddings now. Only my aunt will have it that Meg is better, which no one else can see.

_September 18._

Meg seems a little brighter. I said as much to Mrs. Sharpless, but she only shook her head and turned away. She has had no hope from the first; yet she is the most cheerful person in a sick-room I ever saw, more so even than dear Mrs. Williams. The new rector hath been to see Meg, at her request, and hath read and prayed with her. She seems to find great comfort in his ministrations. He is rather a plain, awkward man, but I must say he is a much more interesting preacher than old Dr. Martin. He hath prayed for Meg in church. When I told my aunt of it, thinking she would be pleased, she was not so at all; saying that Margaret was not so bad as that, and it would be time to pray for her in church when the doctor gave her up.

I saw Ursula this morning in church. And, as we were detained a little in the porch by a passing shower, we had time for quite a chat. She looks rather thin and worn, I think. I asked her if she were well.

"Yes, well enough, if that were all," she answered pettishly, and then asked me if I ever saw Mr. Morley. I told her he was acquainted with my uncle, and visited at our house, but that he was soon going down to the west again.

"Don't you see him?" I asked.

"No, not often," she answered, turning scarlet, as though with some unpleasant remembrance. "Dolly, whatever you do, never marry a jealous-pated old man."

I did not know what to say to this, so I asked after Bab Andrews.

"She is well," was the reply, "but she has taken an odd crotchet in her head since her father died."

"Oh the good old man, is he dead? How sorry I am!" said I. "Bab will be very lonely. But what do you mean by a crotchet, Ursula? I did not think Bab was given to them."

"No, I know she is perfect in your eyes," said Ursula. "Well, she hath come to the conclusion that England is not good enough for such a saint as herself: so she is even going to leave it, and betake herself to the New England Colonies."

"She told me once she thought she might do so, if she were left alone," said I, "but it was not to New England she talked of going, but to some newer colony farther to the south. I cannot think of the name now."

"Ah, well, it does not matter! It is much the same thing. I can't think what should possess her, for she is left very well off, and might live as she pleased. But it seems Mr. Fairchild's sister and her husband went thither a year ago, and she means to join them. And so Mr. Morley comes often to see you, Dolly?"

"I did not say so," I answered, vexed to feel myself blushing. "He is an acquaintance of my uncle, as I told you."

"Well, don't lose your heart to him, lest you should find he hath more than one string to his bow," said Ursula with an ill-natured laugh.

But the rain holding up there was no more time for converse, at which I was glad. I do wish could see Bab once more.

_September 20._

I have had that pleasure, through my kind uncle's intercession. I was coming down-stairs, when my aunt called me into her room, where an elderly serving-man was waiting, whom I recognized at once as living with Mr. Andrews. My aunt held a note in her hand.

"Dorothy, do you know Mrs. Barbara Andrews?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," I answered: "she is the daughter of the rich goldsmith who died not long ago."

"Oh, I know him!" put in my uncle. "He lived in Lombard Street,—a very worthy man and one who was of service to his late Majesty in the matter of raising money. He did me a good turn once, in the same way. Yes, yes, I remember him.—And so your master is dead," addressing himself to the serving-man. "Well, well, I am sorry. Did he leave any family?"

"One daughter, sir," answered old Andrew.

"It is this young lady who writes to me, very properly and nicely I must say," observed my aunt. "She tells me she is about to go to America, and asks the favor of a day's visit from Dorothy."

"And you would like to go, eh, Dolly? Your face says as much," said my uncle.

"Yes, sir; I should like it greatly," I answered. "Mrs. Andrews was the only friend of mine own age I ever had till I knew my cousins."

"So much the better," said my aunt. "I am no great believer in girlish intimacies, but as this young person is going away so far—What say you, Sir Robert?"

"Oh, let her go, let her go!" said my uncle. "Old Mr. Andrews's daughter is sure to be a pattern of all the graces, eh?" addressing himself to the serving-man, who answered,—

"Mistress Barbara is one of the salt of the earth, sir,—the image of her mother now in glory."

"Well, I am sure I hope so," said my uncle, in his kindly, blunt fashion. "Oh, yes, let her go, my lady! She hath had but a dull time lately. Let her go to please me."

This is my uncle's usual plea when he begs us a holiday, and my aunt never refuses him. With an indulgent smile, she bade me get ready to go with Andrew, for whom she ordered a cup of ale to be brought. I was not long in dressing, and was soon on my way.

I found Bab looking much as usual, but very pretty in her mourning. The house was already partly dismantled, but Bab's own rooms, her bedroom and her little parlor, were untouched.

"Why, this is a pleasure I hardly dared expect!" said she, taking off my hood and kissing me. "But I thought I would not fail of it for lack of asking. Your aunt must be a kind lady."

"She is so, though rather strict in her notions," I answered, "but I believe we owe our debt rather to my uncle, who used to know your good father. But where is your aunt?"

"She hath taken a lodging near to my sister Staines in the country," said Bab. "She would fain have lived with them, but my brother Staines would not have that. He told Hester he would do any thing for aunt Jones except live with her."

"I don't blame him," said I.

"So he has fitted up this cottage for her, and Andrew's sister lives with her to attend on her," continued Bab. "I hope she will be as happy there as anywhere. As you say, Dolly, I do not blame my brother Staines for not wanting her to spoil his children's comfort and his own. But oh, Dolly, what a sad sight is unloving and unlovely old age!"

"It is, indeed," said I, thinking of my mistress. "But was it that drove you to seek peace and quietness in a new settlement among the Indian savages?"

"Why no, not exactly, though I will not deny that I find my aunt's absence a great relief. But my aunt Atherton, my mother's sister, is left quite alone by the death of her last daughter; and you know I always professed myself fond of travelling: so, as some friends of mine are going out, I thought I would even go with them, and try my fortune in the New World."

"You have other friends there beside your aunt, have you not?" I asked.

Whereat she told me of Mr. and Mrs. Stacy, who had gone thither the year before, and read me a letter she had from Mrs. Stacy. If I did not know her to be one of the most particular persons in the world, I should set down some of her accounts for mere traveller's tales: as that the people go a-gathering of their peaches with carts, the fruit hanging on the trees like onions in ropes, and as delicate as our best wall-fruit, and cherries by the cartload, beside many wild fruits, such as strawberries, gooseberries, hurtleberries, and cranberries, which last are admirable for tarts and sauces, and many more such particulars. ¹ Mrs. Stacy says the savages about them are peaceable, good neighbors, and some of them are Christians. She sent Bab a long necklace of their beads, made from shells, and which they use as money, and value above all things.

¹ See Robert Stacy's letters quoted in the "Historical Collections of
New Jersey,"—a very valuable book.

This necklace Bab gave me for a remembrance. She also gave me a watch, a toy I have long wished to possess; and this is a very pretty one, with a gold enamelled case, and a pretty picture on the back. I had spent a guinea on a book for her, "The Imitation of Christ," by Thomas à Kempis,—which Meg values more than any book in her closet,—and on a working-case for the pocket, a good, sensible, substantial one, which I thought she might find useful.

The day was all too short for what we had to say; and now, that we are parted, I can think of a hundred questions I had to ask. Bab asked me when I had seen Ursula, and I told her of our conversation in the church porch.

"I fear she is not happy," said Bab. "She said as much to me as that she was sorry she did not marry Mr. Morley."

"I don't believe she ever had the chance," I said, vexed at myself for being vexed.

"I am not sure. He was very devoted to her at one time, but Ursula was bent on making a rich marriage. And so, no doubt, she has, but she may find, as many another hath done, that riches do not bring happiness. There are many things that money can't buy."

"That is true," said I. "I believe Lord Chesterton would give any thing to restore poor Meg to health."

"Is she then so ill? Tell me about her," said Bab; and so I did. She was much interested, and asked about the state of her mind. I told her.

"The dear young lady!" said Bab. "She hath been taught of God, and he makes her way easy. I would I could send her something to comfort her."

"I wish she knew you; you would just suit each other," said I; and I do really think so, though Bab would not go inside a church for the world.

While I was there, a ship's captain, an old friend of her father's, sent her a fine hamper of melons and grapes from Portugal; and nothing would serve but she must put up some of the finest for Margaret. We parted with many tears, and Bab promised to write me when she arrived at her new home.

My aunt was rather displeased with me for being so late, but relented when she saw the beautiful fruit Bab had sent to Margaret. She was pleased, also, to commend my watch, and to say that Mrs. Andrews seemed a kind-hearted girl, and one of a good taste and fancy. She especially admired the lace kerchief and cap of her own work which Bab gave me, saying they were neatly done and very prettily fancied.

"See there, Betty," said she; "you might work as well as that if you would have patience and take time."

"I suppose Mrs. Andrews likes such work," said Betty.

"I don't think she is so very fond of it," said I, "but her father was fond of seeing her work, and Bab would do any thing to pleasure her father."

"And Betty will not do every thing to pleasure her mother," said my aunt.

"That is not quite true, mother," answered Betty; and I saw she was moved, by her using the word which she seldom does. "I would do any thing I could do to please you when you put it in that way, but when people talk of doing things because the world expects it, and because society demands it, I do not care a fig, and that is the truth. I never made any promises to the world, only to renounce it."

I expected my aunt would be displeased, as she generally is at Betty's outbreaks, but she did not seem to be.

"Then, my daughter, will you not try to please your father and mother? And we will say nothing about your bugbear of the world," said she. "I begin to fear that you will soon be my only daughter, and I am growing old. Will you not try to comfort your mother, child?"

Betty was at her mother's feet in a moment. And I, thinking it best, stole out and left them together.

I do wonder, seeing how easily Betty is touched by petting and indulgence, that my aunt should not try it oftener. If I read Betty aright, she is one to be led rather than driven.

_September 20._

The doctor says Margaret must have change of air. And the duke, my Lord Chesterton's uncle, has offered for her benefit a small house he hath in the neighborhood of Richmond, and we shall remove thither next week, giving up this house, as my uncle intends going down to Devon as soon as Meg's health renders it possible. I am pleased with the prospect, for I have never lived in the real country. The only thing Meg regrets is losing the ministrations of Mr. Newington, our new rector, who has been such a comfort to her. But he says he will come to visit her, and tells her that she will like the rector there, who is a friend of his. The house whither we are going is all in order, so we shall have little trouble.

My uncle hath had an attack of dizziness, the blood rushing to his head so as to make him all but senseless for a few minutes. He makes light of it, but I see he drinks no more strong ale or Burgundy wines, but contents himself with small beer, claret, and the like. I do hope nothing will happen to him.

_October 1, Cross Park._

We came down to this lovely place almost a week ago. Meg bore the journey very well, and even enjoyed it, especially after we got fairly out of the city, and she seems better since we came. She has even walked a little on the terrace, from whence is a most lovely prospect, and she has eaten with a little more appetite. My aunt is once more full of hope, and talks about setting the wedding-day soon, but I don't think Sharpless has any hope.

Mr. Morley has gone down to the west about some business for the king, who, it seems, shows him great favor. He came to see us before he left, and told my uncle in parting that he hoped to see him soon again on most important business. He looked at me as he spoke, and smiled meaningly. I do wonder whether there is any thing in what Bab said about Ursula's refusing him. He ever said to me that he did not like her at all, though as his cousin he must needs pay her some attention.

Heigho! It is very delightful to feel that one is loved, and to love in return; yet methinks love doth bring much disquiet in its train. My aunt says I am growing thin, and will have me take milk and cream; and I know my spirits are more variable than ever they were before. But I try to put my own concerns aside, that I may be a comfort to Betty, who does not in the least believe in her sister's amendment; nor, I must say, do I. I remember how my poor friend Emma looked, and she revived in the same way just before the last.

This is a most lovely place. The house is old, with many passages and odd corners, and with much oak wainscot, which makes it rather dark. But there are plenty of windows, and, as the exposure is to the west and south, we have abundance of sun. The park is small, and so are the gardens, but both are very pretty. Especially pleasing to Meg is the view of the parish church, which is very small and old, and overgrown with splendid ivy. It stands in the midst of the churchyard, wherein is a broken stone cross, said to be of great antiquity. The rector is an old and white-haired man, of great dignity of manners, and a sweet, but somewhat sorrowful, face. He hath already visited Meg, who likes him greatly.

Lord Chesterton has taken a lodging near by, and comes to see his lady every day. I never saw a man so changed. He, who used to say life was not worth having away from the court and the theatres, is now content to spend day after day in this quiet place, sitting by Meg's arm-chair, or giving her his arm along the terrace in the short walk she takes every pleasant day. He even reads the Scriptures to her, as she sits in the sunny window of the hall. His very face seems changed. He and Meg have many long talks together, on which no one intrudes. I do think Meg is learning to love him, and I cannot wonder.

My aunt will have Betty and myself go for a walk every day; and we have explored all the nooks and corners of the park, which, though not large, is varied, with little hills and dells. In one of these latter is a beautiful great spring, over which, in olden times, someone has built a little shrine, with a seat, and an inscription of which I can make out only one word, "Pray,"—I suppose an invitation to pray for somebody's soul. The shrine is all in ruins, but the spring gushes forth clear and sparkling as ever. The old housekeeper says it is accounted good for a waste, and Meg has taken a fancy that it tastes better than any other: so I often go early in the morning to bring her a jugful that she may drink it the first thing.

This same housekeeper— Mrs. Mary Miles—is a dear old soul. Instead of being vexed at the increase of her trouble from our coming, she is greatly pleased,—makes all sorts of dainty dishes with her own hands to tempt Meg's appetite, and is always filling Betty's pocket and mine with sugarplums and comfits, which she has great skill and equal pleasure in preparing. It seems the good rector is her cousin.

_October 15._

Our dear, precious Meg is dead and buried. She died just one week ago, and was buried yesterday in the churchyard here, just under the walls of the little gray church. It was at her own request that she was laid there, instead of being taken down to the family burying-place in Devon. She had been quite bright for two or three days, even coming once to the dinner-table. That afternoon she sent for Lord Chesterton, and had a long private talk with him, and afterward with her mother.